My Fair Gentleman (16 page)

“So are you gonna let Joe take you to Columbus?”

Romeo leapt up beside beside Catherine and butted his nose under her hand. “If you heard us talking, you must have heard me say no.”

“I think you should go see your mom. You know, talk a little or something.”

Romeo gave a distressed growl. Catherine unclenched her hand from his fur and shot Joe a black look. His guilty shrug didn’t excuse him for provoking her into airing her dirty laundry earlier.

“So you’ll go?” Allie persisted.

“You don’t understand, honey. It’s not that simple.”

“I understand that grown-ups make things too complicated.”

“Allie…” Joe warned.

The girl cast him a “what’d I do?” look, then turned back to Catherine. “Aren’t you curious about her? Don’t you have a million questions you wanna ask?” She buried her nose in Romeo’s fur, then looked up with a perplexed expression. “I’d give
anything
to have a mother, but you don’t want the one you have. It’s not like she abused you, or anything, ‘cause you haven’t even
seen
her in thirty years. So how come you don’t-want your mother, Catherine?”

Catherine’s stomach churned. For one of the few times in her memory, she didn’t know what to say.

B
EHIND THE COUNTER
at Columbus Truck Stop, Mary Lou set a bowl in front of Nate and smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve been looking forward to this for a while. How many weeks have you been dieting?”

Her friend held up a palm and spooned in a mouthful of peach cobbler. Eyelids drifting shut, he moaned deep in his throat and shuddered before opening his eyes and fixing a dreamy gaze on his favorite dessert.

“Good grief, Nate, this is a G-rated restaurant. Show a little restraint, or I’ll have to take that away from you.”

He curled protective forearms around the bowl. “Touch this and you’re a dead woman.”

She laughed, something she seemed to do a lot these days. “Quit growling and enjoy. You deserve it after getting into those tuxedo pants.”

Checking the other customers to make sure Irene had things under control, Mary Lou propped companionable elbows on the counter as be continued eating. “You looked pretty spiffy walking down the aisle with Cindy on your arm. And she looked beautiful.”

Pride softened Nate’s bulldog features. “She did, didn’t she? Hey, that reminds me. The photographer got some great shots of you and John at the reception. Think you might want some copies made?”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “Maybe. Could I look at the proofs first?”

“Sure thing, honey.” His hazel eyes twinkled affectionately. “I’m real glad to see you so happy. It’s about damn time you let a man into your life again. Now if you’ll just let him into your bed, I’ll quit worry in’ about you altogether.”

Had any other man told her that, she would have frozen him with an icy glare. But Nate had watched her perfect that glare as a young waitress recovering from heartbreak. He truly cared about her welfare.

“How do you know I haven’t pulled back the covers already, Nate Dawson?”

Pushing up from the counter, she headed for the coffeepot, her ears trained behind her for his response. Silence, then a booming laugh. She grinned
in satisfaction. Although she hadn’t taken that crucial step with John yet, it was fun to go one up on an incorrigible tease like Nate.

She bustled back to work, her thoughts filled with John. Her first public appearance as his date last week had been blissful. His unpretentious manner and enthusiastic polka at the reception had charmed the working-class wedding guests. She could almost believe their relationship had a chance. Of course, the real test would be attending, as a couple, one of
his
social events.

As if her thoughts had conjured him up, the front door jangled open and John walked in. Happiness hummed through her body. He saw her immediately, his handsome face alive with pleasure as he strode to the counter and slid onto a stool.

Without having to ask, she shoveled ice into a glass—halfway to the rim and no more—then drew a Diet Coke from the dispenser. He reached for it, grinning that damned grin, the one that said he knew her carefully controlled expression was a lie and he could prove it anytime he wanted.

The front door opened again. A man and woman entered with the look of people searching for the washrooms. She gave Samuel, the cashier, a nod to steer them the right way.

“So Grace must still be running a fever,” John said, recapturing her attention.

“If she is, I’m not sure it’s from a virus. I think her new boyfriend has a few days off. She used up all her vacation time last month.”

“I wish
you
would take a vacation. Your boss wouldn’t begrudge you a little R and R. In fact, he
could use some himself.” His dark brown gaze intensified.

Flustered by the underlying sexual current, she nodded toward a trucker who’d finished his meal. “Let me take care of Larry and I’ll be right back.”

She was giving the burly trucker his tab when she noticed the strangers a second time. They hadn’t wanted the washrooms after all, but were standing at the Please Wait to be Seated sign.

She turned to Irene and called, “Customers in front.”

The waitress glanced toward the sign and nodded at her boss.

Mary Lou thanked Larry for his business and watched him lumber past the striking pair. She studied them from under her lashes while clearing dishes.

The man was tall and dark, not handsome exactly, but so one-hundred percent male her gaze would have lingered if the woman hadn’t exerted such a strong pull. She was tall, also, with black hair, skin as pale as Mary Lou’s and a graceful slimness emphasized by a belted white sundress.

Irene approached the couple, and Mary Lou focused on wiping the counter with a sponge. But something about the woman tugged at her. She lifted the stack of dishes and stole another peek, startled to see Irene pointing a finger straight at her.

The woman turned. Her black-fringed pale green eyes collided with Mary Lou’s, and time was suspended.

It was like looking at her own eyes in the mirror.

The blood left her head. She swayed and her fingers slackened. The dishes hit the floor with an exploding shatter, and her panicked gaze jerked away.

For a big man, John made it around the counter in record time. His arm wrapped around her waist seconds before her legs would have collapsed.

“Take a deep breath, Mary Lou. I’ve got you. Can you walk?”

She nodded woozily. “I’m okay.”

“Come on over here and sit.” He led her to a back corner booth of the diner and helped her ease down. Irene rushed over and hovered anxiously.

Mary Lou made herself look up and smile. “I just got a little dizzy. I’m fine now, really. But could I have a glass of water?”

“I’ll get it.” Irene exchanged a concerned glance with John before dashing off.

Mary Lou refused to look beyond her clasped hands, afraid of what she might see, even more afraid of what she wouldn’t. For too many disappointing years she’d studied every female coming in that door who fit the right general age and description. Maybe the Lord had felt her relaxing on the job and had created a false alarm to keep her on her toes.

”Here’s your water.”

“Thanks, Irene,” John said. “Why don’t you see what you can do about that mess behind the counter? She’ll be fine. I’ll stay with her.”

Mary Lou sipped the water and took strength from his competent presence. Especially when, over the rim of her glass, she saw the tall couple approaching her booth. She set her water down with a sense of unreality.

They stopped nearby, the man supporting the woman’s waist as John had supported hers earlier.

“Can I help you?” John asked, stepping protectively in front of Mary Lou.

At that instant she made a decision. If John still wanted her after today, she would hand him her heart on a platter.

“Joe Tucker,” the man said, extending his hand for a brief shake. “My friend here would like to speak with Ms. Denton.”

She saw the exact moment John noticed the uncanny resemblance between her and the younger woman. His eyes widened and he looked to her for guidance.

Despite her sweating palms, she spoke firmly. “It’s all right, John. Thanks for your help, but I think I’d like to be alone with Mr. Tucker’s friend if you don’t mind.”

John held her gaze a probing few seconds, apparently reading something in her expression that told him not to argue. “If that’s what you want, Mary Lou. But call out if you need me. I’ll be at the counter.”

A big silver platter, she vowed to herself, holding her smile until he walked away.

The man named Joe Tucker guided his friend to the booth and helped her slide onto the opposite bench. His mink brown eyes were tender in so rugged a face. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”

The woman shook her head but reached for his hand. He took it instantly, their clasped fingers an eloquent exchange of strength and trust.

He turned to Mary Lou and his eyes hardened. “We should’ve prepared you first; Ms. Denton. I see that now, and I apologize. But I won’t let you upset her.” It was an unmistakable warning.

Mary Lou nodded her understanding, her throat thickening as one of her most important questions was answered.

Her daughter loved—and was loved by—a good man.

He released the hand in his with obvious reluctance. “I’ll be at the counter watching if you need me, Catherine.”

The name arrowed through Mary Lou’s heart. Memories bled free: a tiny rosebud mouth fastening to her breast; a small slim nose lifting royally at the word no; happy little giggles erasing Mary Lou’s despair when Lawrence had been particularly hurtful.

She studied the face in front of her eagerly. Catherine the child had matured into a stunning woman, her face possessing a character and humanity that outshone conventional beauty. The love Mary Lou had kept alive with old memories grew stronger with the new data. Her questions clamored to be answered.

One rose above the others and escaped in a whisper. “Why now, Catherine? After all these years, why come see me now?”

Resentment chased coolness across green eyes so like her own. That slim nose, not so small anymore and as imperious as her father’s, lifted a royal notch. “I suppose I wanted to know why you didn’t come see me.”

The aftershock was more devastating than the original quake. This was too much to absorb. “But your letter…” Mary Lou shook her head to clear the dazed confusion from her brain. “You told me not to contact you. That you needed to concentrate on getting your degree. That your father was the only parent
you wanted, or needed.” The pain of leading those words came flooding back, no duller for having been stored almost fifteen years.

“What letter? I never sent you a letter.”

“Of course you did. After your eighteenth birthday.”

Confusion winkled Catherine’s smooth brow.

Mary Lou forged ahead. “Except for sending you a birthday card every year, I stayed away just like the court ordered until you reached your majority. Then I was so nervous about seeing you, so afraid you would hate me after what Lawrence must have told you…”

Her daughter’s tightening mouth confirmed Mary Lou’s fears. “So I sent you a birthday present that one time. A carousel music box because you used to love riding merry-go-rounds. And a huge card. With roses on the outside and a long personal note inside…” Her voice broke. She lifted a trembling hand and covered her eyes.

She’d labored for days composing her request to enter her eighteen-year-old daughter’s life again. Catherine’s rejection had almost destroyed her.

“Father told me the music box was from him.”

The horror in that strained voice brought Mary Lou’s hand down.

“I never got your card. I never got
any
of your cards, Mother.”

Mother.
Mary Lou swiped impatiently at a tear.

Every smidgen of color vanished from Catherine’s face. “If you got a letter from me, then someone else wrote it. Someone who wanted to keep us apart.” Her implication was clear, along with the bitter pain it caused her.

“But…the letter was handwritten. I know your father’s handwriting. It wasn’t his. Lawrence couldn’t have been that cruel.” But of course that wasn’t true. How could she have been so naive a second time? Mary Lou dashed away more tears.

“What did you say about a court order?”

“What? Oh, the custody judgment.” She’d never tried to contact her daughter after that first attempt, . deciding that learning the truth about her beloved father would hurt Catherine more than it would give Mary Lou satisfaction. But now…“Those people
tied,
Catherine! I was totally unprepared at the trial—”

“Custody judgment?” Catherine interrupted, her expression stark with shock. “You fought Father for custody of me?”

Mary Lou blinked. “Of course. You were my baby. I would have died for you. I nearly
did,
when they took you away from me. You…didn’t know about the trial?” She looked into her mirror-image eyes and saw fragile wonder and unshed tears.

Catherine shook her head. “Father said you were glad to sign over custody. He told me you’d said I would only hold you down.”

Mary Lou grew still, the enormity of Lawrence’s deception and her own tucked-tail defeatism squeezing the air from her lungs. If she dwelled on what she’d lost, she would lose her mind. But by the grace of her daughter’s courage, she had a chance to salvage their future relationship.

Stretching both hands across the table, she turned her palms up and waited. Seconds passed as her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Thai Catherine’s hands crept from her lap, inching forward to clasp her mother’s fingers for the first time in thirty years. Neither woman broke the connection to wipe the tears rolling down her face.

“I
never
stopped loving you,” Mary Lou said, her voice fierce with truth. “Not once since the day he took you away from me. Your father lied to you, Catherine. And it’s time you learned what really happened.”

C
ATHERINE STARED
blindly out the Bronco’s passenger window, grateful for Joe’s silence and the setting sun. Her emotions needed a quiet dark place to whimper and lick their wounds.

Her father’s betrayal was beyond forgiving.

The woman Catherine had left behind in the truck stop was nothing like the wife Lawrence Hamilton had described. Several hours in Mary Lou Denton’s company had proved her to be articulate, demure and smart. John Chandler had called her one of the most responsible and savvy business managers he’d ever employed. Despite his obvious personal interest, Catherine didn’t doubt his word.

She’d finally remembered where she’d seen his name—on her engagement-party guest list. Carl had expressed hope that the prominent businessman would attend their little affair.

Even if her mother’s character hadn’t been endorsed, Catherine would have still believed Mary Lou’s story. It was too sickeningly plausible. And the pure unconditional love shining in the gaze she’d turned on Catherine couldn’t be faked.

That single fact overrode an entire lifetime of her father’s disapproving guardianship. She heard a tiny moan, and realized it had come from her.

“You okay over there?” Joe asked, casting her a sharp-eyed glance.

She tried to smile, but her facial muscles wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ve been better.”

“We’re almost home, doll. Hold on a little longer.”

She laid her head back against the seat, thinking that Joe had shown her more kindness in the past few weeks than her father had in all the years they’d lived and worked together. Control was Lawrence Hamilton’s substitute for love. He’d been so obsessed with molding his daughter in his own image that he’d used despicably low means to justify the end.

Like hiring a high-powered divorce lawyer, who later ran for governor of Connecticut with the Hamilton family’s endorsement. Like obtaining affidavits from a series of Mary Lou’s alleged past lovers. Like bribing sworn testimony from a dinner theater cleaning lady who’d walked in on the theater’s male director, Mary Lou and her child during an “assignation.”

Only according to the cleaning lady, the director had been fondling the child, not the woman.

“Catherine?”

She jerked out of her unpleasant thoughts and blinked at her surroundings. The Bronco sat parked in her driveway. It obviously wasn’t the first time Joe had called her name.

“I’m sorry, Joe, I…can’t seem to get a grip.”

His eyes gentled. “Let’s get you inside.”

She found herself hustled into the house, guided up the stairs and propped against her bathroom door while Joe started a tub of water. The sight of his brawny forearm testing the temperature brought a faint smile to her mouth. He adjusted the taps, then rose to his full height.

“You want to get a robe or something from your room?”

She shook her head, the effort depleting the last of her energy.

Frowning, he brushed past her and clomped down the hardwood floor hallway. Her eyelids drifted shut. She heard drawers sliding open and closed, then the squeaky hinge of her closet door. More distant clomping. And suddenly he brushed by her again trailing that yummy Joe smell—a mixture of sun and wind and big male animal. She lifted drowsy lids and saw him toss her long terry cloth robe on the closed commode.

He cut off the tub faucet and turned, avoiding her eyes. “That’s about all I can do here. You need anything else?”

“Give me a hand with my zipper?” She faced the door, leaned her forehead against the wood and waited. After a long moment he stepped behind her and did as she requested with one quick
zing!

He was in the hallway before she lifted her head.

“Joe?” she called, halting his retreat. He didn’t quite turn all the way around. “You’re not leaving, are you? I mean, you’ll wait downstairs?”

He released a drawn-out breath. “Yeah, I’ll wait.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, closing the door on the sight of his broad back heading toward the stairs.

She stripped off her sundress, undergarments and sandals and sank into the tub. Heavenly. Joe’s vow to remain single was depriving some lucky woman of a wonderful husband.

Dangerous subject, that. Her mind searched for a diversion and offered up her mother’s horrifying description of the divorce trial.

There had been just enough truth in the cleaning lady’s testimony to nail the lid on her mother’s coffin. Mary Lou
had
landed a role in the dinner theater’s latest production. Mary Lou had taken her daughter to a late rehearsal and accepted the director’s offer of a cup of coffee in his office. He’d given her little girl paper and crayons and then sat cross-legged on the floor beside Catherine to watch her scribble. Mary Lou’d had no idea the kindly director had been arrested three times—for child molestation.

She’d been helpless against her husband’s unexpected and heinous charge. Rallying as best she could in her own defense, she’d failed to prevent the judge’s harsh ruling. Her later court appeal had been denied. Only her knowledge that Lawrence loved Catherine, however misguided and warped that love was, had kept her from attempting to kidnap her daughter and run.

As Catherine lathered herself with rose-scented soap, she thought that maybe Joe was right. Maybe they were all just pawns in the end. If so, then she’d wasted precious time trying to create a future she had no control over. What she
should
be doing is wringing the gusto from each and every minute, before her position on that giant celestial chessboard moved again.

She slid underneath the water, blew bubbles and came up dripping but invigorated. It was all so clear now. She would sever ties with her father. That much was a piece of cake. But the other—breaking her engagement to Carl—that would be tough.

She would do it, though, because they both deserved better than a loveless marriage. She had her
parents’ example to thank for her new attitude. And, of course, Joe. The screwup whose image of himself was slowly starting to match the gentleman he’d always been inside.

What would calling off her engagement before he had a chance to prove he could win the bet do to his self-esteem?

Frowning, she rose from the tub, lifted her robe and did a double-take. A shimmering cream satin nightgown lay draped across the commode like a forties’ movie queen.

Why, out of a drawer full of chaste cotton garments, had Joe selected the one item she’d purchased for her wedding night? Shivers raced over her skin.

She had the distinct feeling that somewhere up there in the sky, her pawn had just been moved.

Joe rummaged in the kitchen pantry and pulled out a can of chicken noodle soup. Catherine had to be hungry. Her mother had ordered burgers all around, but while he and John had polished off theirs, the two women hadn’t touched a bite.

The truth was he’d had to swallow past a huge lump in his throat himself. Come to think of it, John had looked a little misty, too. The reunion between mother and daughter had played out like a scene from a two-hanky chick’s movie.

Dumping the soup into a pan, Joe set it on a glowing burner and propped his hip against the stove. He was happy he’d had a part in Catherine’s gaining a mother, but sorry as hell she was hurting so much over her father.

Talk about manipulation! Lawrence Hamilton’s shenanigans made Big Joe’s prodding seem amateurish
by comparison. Keeping his fist out of Hamilton’s face was going to be Joe’s biggest challenge at the party.

He glanced toward the doorway, wondering what was taking her so long. He’d gotten, the impression that she would come downstairs after her bath, that she needed a friend to be with her for a while.

Is that why you picked out the sexiest nightgown in her drawer, old friend?

A
rush of heat flooded his face, then his loins. The sight of the plastic Snow White doll standing amid the crystal ornaments on her dresser had made him pause. He’d felt uncomfortable invading her privacy, going through her stuff; so, intending to get out quickly, he’d plunged his hand through cotton. And then he’d touched satin.

He loved satin. A lot. His fingers had gathered a pinch and pulled. Next thing he’d known the slinky gown was hanging over his arm beneath a terry-cloth robe like the one his mother wore. He wondered what Catherine would think when she saw what he’d brought her.

Again he glanced at the doorway. She’d acted strange in the bathroom, sort of detached and dreamy. A stir of uneasiness came and went. She was probably enjoying an extra-long soak, that was all. Might even have fallen asleep in the tub. He straightened swiftly.

Turning off the burner, he strode out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the foyer. “Catherine?” he called up the staircase.

Silence.

Climbing a step, he paused. “Yo, Catherine, are you all right?”

Nothing.

He took the stairs two at a time, hit the hallway at a lope and skidded to a stop in front of the open bathroom door. Moist, rose-scented air curled a seductive finger under his nose. He stepped inside and noted the empty bathtub, the puddle of water on the floor, the terry-cloth robe folded neatly on the tiled counter. His gaze snapped to the closed toilet seat.

No satin nightgown.

Don’t be stupid, Tucker.
He backed out of the bathroom and into the hall.
She’s vulnerable right now and you have to be strong.
He turned and headed for the staircase.
She doesn’t belong to you, and you’re not good enough for her, anyway.
He passed by the stairs as if in a trance, his steps pulled by a force stronger than caution, more insistent than honor.

Drawing close to another open door, he slowed and stopped on the threshold, his muttered oath part curse, part prayer.

The room was lit by two squat candles flickering on the nightstand. Catherine sat in the middle of the bed, her legs tucked primly to the side. Candlelight caressed white skin and ivory satin with a shadowy, lapping motion. Her cat-in-the-dark eyes were mysterious and watchful.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” he finally managed.

“I wanted you to come to me.”

Lord have mercy.
She couldn’t mean it like it sounded. He looked at the nightstand, the dresser— anywhere but at her. “is there something you need?”

“Yes, please.”

Her throaty whisper lingered in the quiet, waiting.…pulling…dragging his gaze back to her heavy-lidded eyes.

“I need vow, Joe.”

His heart stopped, then lurched to rib-cracking life. “You’re tired. Your emotions are strung out from here to Columbus. Tomorrow you’ll feel different. Go to sleep.”

“Come here.”

Oh, God,
he thought,
don’t do this. Not when I’m trying to be responsible for once in my life!

“What about Carl?” he said desperately.

Something flickered in her eyes and she started to speak, then looked down and smoothed the bedspread. “We’ll have a marriage of convenience, Joe. Our hearts aren’t involved.”

Savage triumph swelled and died. He’d seen the way Pretty Boy looked at her these days. “What about your private practice? Because I guarantee he won’t foot the bill if he thinks there’s anything between us. Are you willing to risk everything, Catherine? Stop for a minute and
think.
”

She flung up her chin. “I don’t want to think. I’m tired of thinking! Thinking is for dried-up academics who plan every trip to the John.”

He winced at the phrase he’d once thrown at her so cruelly.

“Tonight I want to
feel,
not think, like I did when you kissed me under the tree. Please help me feel something besides pain.” She lifted her slender arms and opened them in invitation.

He closed his eyes against the sight, knowing he should walk away, rooted in hellish limbo on the threshold. “You’d hate me later,” he predicted.

“But if you leave, I’ll hate you more.”

The soft conviction in her voice raised the hairs along Joe’s arms. A rustle on the bed flared his nostrils. He opened his eyes and stiffened.

She stood and walked toward him, a fantasy vision in the floor-length satin gown. Its thigh-high slit flashed a long shapely leg with every second step. He smelted her as she drew near, the blend of roses and natural female so imprinted on his brain he could have picked her out blindfolded in a room full of women. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

When her bare toes touched his boots, she stopped and lifted her hands. “One minute with these babies—” she wiggled her fingers “—and you’ll do anything I want.”

“Catherine—”

“Shh.” She pressed two fingertips against his lips, then trailed them over his cheek, his nose, his increasingly damp brow. “Are you hot, Joe?”

The passion he’d felt under the tree was nothing— a boy’s hunger—next to the ravenous heat in his blood now. Then, he’d caught her by surprise. Tonight, she’d come to him.

She twined both arms around his neck and looked up through her lashes. “I’m hot. In fact, I’m burning.”

Staring into the green flames of her eyes, he felt poised on the rim of a volcano. “You know this is wrong, Catherine,” he said, trying one last useless time.

“Then why does it feel so right?”

Reason fled. He jumped in with both feet. His open mouth lowered to her warm waiting one, and the
earth’s molten core closed over his head. Searing, bubbling, roaring in his ears.

Her hands delved into his hair and his did the same to hers, threading the sleek wet strands and cupping the back of her head. He slanted his mouth for deeper access and silently invited her to join the thrusting dance. She did, startling him by leading as often as she was led.

The tongue that could flay him with words stroked his mouth like an experienced courtesan’s, making him wonder what else it could do. She broke the kiss and tilted his head, swirling her tongue in his ear and providing at least one erotic answer.

She seemed as hungry as he was, her mouth eating him up in small nibbles, taking a piece of his earlobe, his jaw, his Adam’s apple. Latching onto the vulnerable spot on his neck he’d claimed for his own on
hers
when he’d backed her against a tree.